


the rock show

by horriblekids



Series: '03verse (trying too hard) [3]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 2003 AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29538021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horriblekids/pseuds/horriblekids
Summary: “My friends are playing a show tonight,” Michael tells him. “You wanna go? We can get pizza after.” And he flicks his bangs out of his face, too long and limp from the humid heat in the air, and where Ashton used to think that move was stupid now he finds it endearing. This, Ashton thinks, is where he fucks up.Or: Is it really a date if no one uses the word ‘date’ to describe it? Are they even dating?
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin
Series: '03verse (trying too hard) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170044
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	the rock show

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this fic, and some related works, way back in 2014. So if this seems familiar, it might be. But this story has been nagging at me literally every day for the last 6 years waiting to be finished, and so I think I owe it to myself - and you - to see it through to the end, even if it hurts. Expect some minor edits in future instalments; I didn't do any here for my own sanity.

They don’t go on dates. Ashton’s thinking about that in music class when he should be paying attention, watching Michael bite his nails. It should bother him that they don’t, he thinks. But of course they don’t go on dates. They’re not… actually dating. Are they? And then it bothers him that he doesn’t know, and the thought goes around and around in his head until he realizes that he’s zoned out completely. It’s Friday and the week has dragged on for far too long; Ashton’s brain feels sluggish and all he wants in the world is to go home and veg out in front of the television with the oscillating stand fan pointed at his feet. He can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. 

“Are you working tonight?” Michael turns around to ask him. 

“Nah,” Ashton says. He leans forward slightly in his seat, hooks his index finger over Michael’s middle one on top of the desk. He doesn’t know if he should mention that he’s going to have the house to himself all weekend. His mum is taking Harry and Lauren to visit their uncle - he’d have gone, too, if he weren’t scheduled to work both days. 

Michael practically beams at him. “Good,” he says. “Wanna hang out?” Ashton wants to say no. Really knows that he shouldn’t - he’s drowning in late homework on top of needing to do laundry and about a million other things around the house - but the temptation is there. 

“Yeah,” Ashton blurts out without meaning to. Before they can make plans, the teacher stops lecturing on correct notation for the tenor clef to glare at both of them. ‘Sorry,’ Michael mouths before he turns around to color his nails sullenly with Sharpie. For the rest of the lesson Ashton draws his clefs extra hard, leaving imprints in the next sheet of notebook paper. He hates tenor clef; when is he ever going to use it again? It’s not like he’s ever going to become a musician, he thinks, so he doesn’t see the point of learning music notation to begin with. The only reason he took music to begin with was because he thought it would be a bird course and he hated the idea of everyone looking at him if he joined the school musical. 

He’s still thinking about it when school ends for the day and Michael hangs back after the bell to wait for him. “My friends are playing a show tonight,” Michael tells him. “You wanna go? We can get pizza after.” And he flicks his bangs out of his face, too long and limp from the humid heat in the air, and where Ashton used to think that move was stupid now he finds it endearing. This, Ashton thinks, is where he fucks up.

Because he knows he should say no. Everyone’s going to be there - everyone Michael thinks is important, anyway - and it’s a stupid thing to say yes to when Ashton is still scared to hold his hand sometimes. He pushes it down and goes, “Come over first.” Michael looks so pleased he might burst. 

They walk home together most days, unless Ashton has to work. Then Michael skips out on holding court at the skate park to walk with him to the bus stop, where they stand awkwardly next to each other until the bus rolls up to the curb. If no one else is waiting, sometimes Michael will kiss the corner of Ashton’s mouth before they say goodbye to each other. Although Ashton doesn’t know if only once counts as sometimes or a statistical outlier. They hold hands a lot when Michael thinks no one is looking.

Ashton holds Michael’s hand and walks in the road so Michael can walk along the edge of the curb, laughing when he stumbles. “Lame,” he teases, shoving Michael’s shoulder playfully. 

“The lamest,” Michael agrees. 

“So does this mean I get to meet your cool friends finally?” Ashton asks, reaching back to adjust the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He’s trying to figure out what this means - if this is just them as friends hanging out, or if he’s supposed to be trying to impress people - and Michael’s noncommittal shrug tells him nothing. 

Michael stops for a minute. “You think I have cool friends?” he asks, dumbfounded. “I don’t think any of my friends are that cool. We all kind of suck.” 

They cut through the skate park and stop approximately a million times so Michael can high-five or bro-hug everyone they meet. It’s different, sitting at the skatepark and holding hands or doing homework. It feels like it’s allowed there. But Ashton doesn’t know if there are different rules around Michael’s friends in bands - are they supposed to be just friends there? Will everyone think he’s Michael’s boyfriend? Has Michael told them otherwise? A lurching uncertainty fills Ashton’s gut. He comes dangerously close - as they’re walking up his driveway - to asking. Not for the first time. 

Instead, they spend the time getting ready to go out. Ashton re-straightens his fringe. Michael stands in front of the mirror with a stick of eyeliner, frowning at his reflection. “What are you doing,” Ashton asks after burning his ear for the fourth or fifth time. 

“Eyeliner,” Michael says, pulling a ghastly face as he applies it near the inner corner of his eye. Ashton sits on the edge of the bed, watching. “I could put some on you, too, if you want,” Michael offers. 

“No way,” Ashton goes. When Michael does it he looks kind of cool - Ashton’s pretty sure if he lets Michael put the stuff on him he’s going to look like a drowned raccoon.

“Come on,” Michael needles him. “Let me. I’ll make it worth it.” Ashton pretends to have no idea what he means. Sometimes he really doesn’t - sometimes he thinks Michael’s going to do some sweeping, romantic gesture and it ends up being a stupid pun or something - but in this instance he thinks he has a pretty good idea where Michael’s mind has gone. Teenage boy, lots of hormones run amok, bedroom. That kind of thing. 

He puts up a token fight. “You’re gonna make me look dumb,” he complains, reaching for Michael’s arms and tugging them down to his waist. Michael huffs and settles his weight against Ashton’s side, opting to flop back onto the mattress instead. It’s too hot to fool around, Ashton thinks somewhere in the back of his head. It’s a very distant thought - somewhere at the bottom of the pile of thoughts that go Michael - kissing - hands - clothes - belt buckles. 

“You care too much about looking dumb,” Michael tells him, laughing quietly as he fumbles with his belt. Ashton had sort of thought - after the first time - that they’d get better at this, or at least less awkward. But as it turns out, things with Michael are always awkward and half the time they end up interrupted or laughing too hard to get much beyond feeling each other up occasionally. 

Ashton rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, one of us has to care,” he says. He tips his head back and glances at the alarm clock. 

Michael pats him on the shoulder and goes, “Stop being so uptight.” A minute later he’s sat up and doing up his belt, leaving Ashton frustrated in every sense of the word. He’s wearing an unfairly tight Autopilot Off shirt. Yet another reason Ashton has a creeping sense of anxiety about this whole idea - he’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in his light blue jeans and plain white t-shirt. He doesn’t have cool hair, or cool clothes, or… anything. The only claim he has to coolness is this whatever with Michael, and even that is dubious at best since they’re not officially dating.

And that, Ashton knows, is one hundred percent his own fault for being so afraid all the time. Afraid of failure, afraid of being singled out and made fun of, afraid of committing to the idea that he’s not normal full-time. Because he pretends to be okay with how he is - how it all is - but at the end of the day he’s terrified of what being gay means for his future. It’s not like he could just go out and marry a guy. He can’t have kids, a family… And being with Michael would make any of that stuff even less likely because Michael is so goddamn flighty. He thinks about that, lying on his bed with his jeans still undone while Michael single-handedly depletes the ozone layer with the amount of hairspray he’s using. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Michael says when he’s finally done, fringe straightened to all hell and the back of his hair spiked up like the emo kids do. His eyeliner is slightly lopsided. Ashton doesn’t say anything; doesn’t think about how he could have done a better job of it from all the times he’s played dress-up with Lauren, doesn’t. Doesn’t anything. Michael holds his hand the whole way there, elbows bumping together as they walk along the side of the road. 

The words are on the tip of his tongue as they’re walking, but Ashton doesn’t say them. ‘Is this a date’ runs through his head over and over, but he doesn’t want to think about it. “So what kind of music do your friends play?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over Michael’s.

“Dunno how to explain it. It’s kind of like punk rock but with some screaming bits in?” Michael shrugs. “They’re a bit shit but everyone will be there, so.” 

The show is at one of those shoddy little community centers that people can rent out for a couple hundred dollars for the afternoon for, like, charity bake sales and science competitions and things like that. A Sharpie’d-on cardboard sign informs them that cover is five dollars; before Ashton can even reach for his wallet Michael has already produced a crumpled tenner from one of his many pockets. And he wasn’t kidding about everyone being there - it seems like every five steps or so there’s someone new for them to greet, following the same general formula: Michael will go “Hey, you!” and either fist-bump or hug each person before introducing Ashton while beaming the whole time. 

The first time it’s kind of awkward. After the sixth or seventh Ashton is kind of over the introductions. He can’t help it; he knows he’s reading way too much into the whole ‘Michael not introducing him with any identifiers’ thing when they haven’t even defined their whole whatever-this-is. Finally they locate Calum and the others. “Hey dude, good to see you,” Calum says. “I didn’t know you were coming out tonight.” 

“Um, yeah,” Ashton says, waving his free hand in the air vaguely. “Last minute plans and all that. Michael really wanted me to go, so here I am.” 

“At least now I’ll have someone to make fun of the emos with,” Calum goes. “My sister’s here too, but she already ditched us for some guys that brought beer. I’d introduce you but that would ruin her ‘street cred’,” Calum explains, using air quotes for emphasis. 

“Next time,” Michael tells him. 

Ashton doesn’t know if there will be a next time. He feels like he’s having a minor heart attack just being here right now. “Yeah, cool,” he agrees, dropping Michael’s hand quickly as the music finally starts. The stage is a disorganized mess of patch cables and amps stacked haphazardly since none of them can afford newer or better equipment. The crowd becomes a sweaty, pulsating mass of body parts that ebb and flow with the music. Since they’re standing in front of one of the speakers, everything just sounds like noise to Ashton. Or maybe that’s how it’s supposed to sound - he doesn’t know. In the center of the crowd there’s a circle where people are… It looks like an absurd form of interpretive dance, with kids two-stepping and windmilling their arms. 

Beside him, Michael’s bouncing up and down restlessly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Calum and the others are standing with their arms crossed or hands in their pockets, occasionally nodding along to the beat. Generally speaking, the people at the edges of the crowd are a lot less active than the absolute maniacs in the center. 

He nudges Michael and leans over to shout in his ear. “Go,” he says, pushing Michael towards the center of the mosh pit. 

‘Are you sure?’ Michael half-mouths, half-shouts against his ear. And Ashton can’t raise his own voice over the music so he just nods mutely. He isn’t expecting it - he isn’t expecting Michael to grab him and kiss him in the middle of the crowd, in front of everyone. Not the type of kiss he’s become accustomed to in public, behind closed doors or in the back of the gym during pep rallies or on his front step late at night. This is the one where the crowd falls away and it feels like everything stops until they pull away from each other so Ashton can laugh awkwardly and Michael can grin at him and squeeze his hand before shoving his way through the crowd. For a moment Ashton doesn’t feel awkward and out of place. 

Calum, beside him, rolls his eyes and makes gagging motions. “You two are so gross,” he bitches loudly. He doesn’t really mean it though - he looks too much like a proud parent to actually be serious. Ashton hangs back until the end of the set, waiting for Michael to rematerialize. And he does, with his eyeliner streaking under his eyes now and his clothing rumpled and sweaty. 

“I got the shit beat out of me,” Michael says proudly. 

“Isn’t that supposed to be a bad thing?” Ashton wonders. 

Michael and Calum look at each other and say, “Nah,” in unison. They high-five excitedly before Calum wanders off to find his sister and their other friends, leaving Michael and Ashton on their own. “Come on,” Michael says. “Let’s go get food.” They walk out without saying goodbye to anyone. It could mean nothing. It could mean this entire evening was a mistake. Ashton’s never sure - and it’s never Michael who’s hot and cold about the whole thing, it’s always him, and he knows that it’s shitty of him but it’s like he can’t help it. 

The pizza place is next to this other storefront that used to be a mortgage place that’s been replaced by a daycare. There’s a waist-high stone wall between the parking lots where they sit and eat. Even though it’s in his hometown, somewhere Ashton has passed a million times in the car with his mum, tonight it feels like they’re on a different planet. The pizza is greasy, the cheese stretchy and messy. It’s a dive, the kind of place purposely on the streets where things happen so the people who go there will be too hungry and beat-up to care that the tomato sauce is runny and the pepperoni overcooked. 

“So now what?” Ashton asks. It’s gotten late without either of them noticing. 

“Dunno,” Michael goes. “Go home, I guess. Not like there’s anything else to do in this fucking town.” Emphasis on else, emphasis on fucking. Ashton doesn’t tell him that he doesn’t actually mind life the way it is. Somehow he thinks it would be disloyal of him to say. 

Michael walks him home and lingers on the doorstep like he usually does, both sets of their hands intertwined. “I had a good time tonight,” Ashton says. 

“Good.” Michael seems so self-satisfied, leans in for the kiss and then hums happily when Ashton kisses back. When they pull away Michael lingers for a while longer, almost like he’s expecting Ashton to invite him in, but that feels like a monumental step. An admission of something more. Something Ashton’s not ready to do tonight, anyway. Exchanging handjobs and the occasional beejay is one thing, but actual sex? The idea of it is terrifying and massive and, like, rest-of-their-lives huge. 

Or maybe, like always, he’s getting too far ahead in his own head. Maybe that’s all he and Michael are good for - a bit of casual sex that definitely won’t feel casual to Ashton, and then they part ways when it’s time to go off to college. He can’t even call what they have friends with benefits. They’ve never really been friends, have they? 

“I’ll call you,” Michael tells him. 

And Ashton knows that he will. “Cool,” he says. “I have work in the morning, but after that we can hang out if you want.” They say their goodbye, holding onto each other for far too long before Ashton finally unlocks the front door so they can say goodbye one last time. “Bye,” Ashton goes, pulling the door closed behind him. He tries not to think about the feeling he has that he’s fucked things up epically. He tries not to think about the fact that he really, really wanted Michael to stay. What it would mean if they did - and would they fumble, would it be awkward? Everything between them is awkward. 

He sometimes wishes Michael were less intense. It’s always all or nothing with him - there can never be anything in between; there’s either lifelong commitment or a passing fancy. The problem isn’t that Ashton doesn’t know which one he is. He has his suspicions, but the thing is that he hasn’t made up his mind. It feels like whatever he decides is going to dictate the rest of his life, and that feels like a lot of commitment for someone who hasn’t even finished high school yet. Maybe, Ashton thinks, he’s the asshole. He spends the rest of the night mentally rewinding back to the moment where he should have say ‘Stay’ but didn’t. There’s his answer; he’s just afraid to admit it to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me - and shout at me! - at [Tumblr](http://anxietycalling.tumblr.com).


End file.
